Abnormalities.

That is the word that changed Matthew and his wife Hannah's lives forever. They went in for a routine ultrasound, their almost two-year-old son Walker playing happily beside them in the waiting room, and left knowing that their lives would never be the same, and that their son Noah was unlikely to live.

What followed was six months of hurrying up and waiting. Six months of grieving a diagnosis before they ever had to grieve a death. Six months of doctor's appointments and phone calls and learning, in real time, what it means to carry an impossible weight while the rest of the world keeps moving.

Noah was born with Trisomy 13, a genetic condition that is almost always fatal. He lived for 57 and a half hours. And Matthew will tell you, that was 57 and a half hours more than they ever expected to get.

In this conversation, Matthew shares what those hours looked like, what those six months looked like, and what the six years since have looked like. He talks honestly about the fog of grief, about learning to let people in, about the two questions he and Hannah developed that he believes saved their marriage. He talks about the moment a mentor told him it was okay to have a good day, and how he wept on the phone, because he couldn't imagine it. And he talks about how, five years after Noah's death, he sat down to journal on Noah's birthday and realized something that took his breath away.

Noah is the only son he never let down.

He was fully present for every moment of his son's entire life.

Out of that realization, and out of six years of quietly sending care packages to families navigating terminal diagnoses, came the Even Though We Will Foundation, and a book by the same name, released this week. The title is their family's mantra, rooted in Psalm 23. Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil. Not because Andy died, this happened. Not because Noah died, this came to be. But even though — and in that even though, something beautiful still can.

Matthew also writes about something rarely heard from a grieving father, what it looks like to watch your favorite person in the world suffer, and feel utterly powerless to fix it. What it means to be a doer, a leader, a fixer, and suddenly not be able to do any of those things. And what it means to fall back on a faith that, in the end, held them both.

Even Though We Will is available now at EvenThoughWeWill.com and on Amazon.

We are not meant to do this alone.

That is the thread that runs through every moment of this conversation, and these are the words Gwen chose to close with, because they are simply true.

This episode is a replay of our recent live Q&A, a chance to follow up on the four-week educational series Gwen so graciously offered in February while I took a much-needed step back. We talk openly about what that break was like for me, why I needed it, and what I learned from it, including the hard-won lesson that even sacred work can wear you down if you never put it down, even for a little while.

From there the conversation opens up into something larger. We talk about the value of support groups, of finding someone a few miles ahead of you on this road and letting them show you that it is possible to keep going. We talk about the difference between the raw, gut-wrenching suffering of early grief and the longing that comes later — the stone in your pocket that never goes away but changes shape over time. And we talk about why hearing someone else's story, knowing someone else feels exactly what you feel, can be the one small thing that makes a grieving parent feel just a little less alone.

Gwen also shares a story from her recent vacation that stopped me in my tracks, the story of a ten-year-old girl on a beach, a grieving mama watching from a distance, and a moment that could only have been arranged by God.

If you missed the educational series from February, those episodes are available in the feed — Episodes 333 through 337. And if you would like a discount code for private sessions with Gwen, simply reach out to either of us at marcy@andysmom.com or gwen@grief-guide.com and we will get that to you.

Because we are not meant to do this alone.

And we never have to.

Before Angie lost her son Jake, she used to say something that I think many of us have said — or at least thought.

If something ever happened to Jake, you would just have to bury me with him. Period. End of discussion. There was no way.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Jake was Angie's only child, her greatest surprise and her greatest blessing. Born in August of 1995, he grew up to be a man of quiet, steady faith — the kind that didn't ask for recognition, that just lived itself out in the way he treated people, the way he loved his wife Hannah, the way he'd get genuinely excited talking about heaven. He loved the outdoors, he loved to hunt and fish, and Angie always called him her simple man. In fact, when he got married in 2020, their mother-son dance was to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man."

On March 8th, 2023, Jake was on his way to work when he was killed in a car accident. He was twenty-seven years old, just two years into his marriage, and days away from closing on the house he and Hannah had planned and saved for together.

Now, three years later, Angie is still here.

Not because it has been easy. Not because the grief has softened into something manageable. But because one foot in front of the other, one whispered Jesus at a time, God has held her up when she was sure she could not stand.

In this conversation, Angie speaks honestly about what these three years have looked like. The shock that she now understands as a mercy from God. The struggle to pray when the words just wouldn't come. The Bible study group of bereaved moms that has become her lifeline. The therapist who told her that one of the ways she could honor Jake was to lean into Jesus, because that was Jake. And how after he said it, she started hearing it everywhere.

Lean in. Lean in. Lean in.

This is an episode about surviving what you were sure would kill you. About faith that isn't tidy or triumphant, but shows up anyway, kicking and screaming sometimes, and keeps going.

If you have ever said there is no way I could survive this, this episode is for you.

Here is Angie, three years in, still standing.